


you shouldn't have

by FrozenPoison



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death Fix, Don't copy to another site, Explicit Language, Fix-It, M/M, Psychological Drama, fuck amc, this scene doesn't belong to "you don't belong here" what a terrible pun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 14:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19702810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenPoison/pseuds/FrozenPoison
Summary: There was a view of the cemetery, which had begun with the first graves – of Glenn and Abraham, – from his point of view. Since then, it had been expanding and eagerly waiting for the new victims.An alternative scene s09e09





	you shouldn't have

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [you shouldn't have // не стоило](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19583791) by [FrozenPoison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenPoison/pseuds/FrozenPoison). 



> This is my first work in English.  
> Thanks a lot to PezzieCoyote for fixing my mistakes ♡

His legs barely held him; he scratched his palms by the rough brick walls of the basement trying quickly get out and to not fall down on the steps because of his nervous and physical exhaustion and mad mix of emotions, tearing apart his insides. The last two days had pulled all the strength out of him. The system couldn’t handle it and it twisted his nerves. Daryl held on. He held on until, not allowing a panic take over his mind, although he knew he finally could breathe out freely, eat and sleep here, in Hilltop.

He nearly killed the girl. _“Not a girl,”_ his anger growled, _“but one of them, of the bastards_ _putting the masks of the dead on themselves and behaving like the dead, killing living_ _people”_. She said the walls didn’t keep anyone safe. _“She threatened!_ ” anger growled, “ _they will come and take away all that was built in the last almost ten years: provisions, a peaceful life. They will destroy, as once The Governor did, just because they can, because no one should live better than them. And then kill them all. Because everybody still alive is a threat. Law of nature states “you or them.”_ Fucking human nature. After the world’s collapse, ugly characteristics started to show, growing and prevailing over the humanity in people, opened by reawakened primal instincts. You couldn’t condemn them for the urge to survive, but only humanity is able to realize the price, to see the line and not to cross it.

Daryl’s hands were shaking. He sat leaning against the wall, beside the little window of a makeshift prison, where usually held the drunkards (the proof that the worst in people is brought out sooner or later but it can be curbed). He was crumpling the dry stalk of the grass listening to the conversation between Henry and Lydia. Like he thought the boy wanted to calm the scared little girl. A few minutes ago, Daryl was going to skin her alive, drag her outside and make her pay for all her group did. But something wavered inside him, the bloody scales fell from his eyes, and he had seen not a murderer but just a little girl.

There was a view of the cemetery, which had begun with the first graves – of Glenn and Abraham, – from his point of view. Since then, it had been expanding and eagerly waiting for new victims. A feeling of guilt devours Daryl's insides, but he used to strangle it and slaughter it by day to day problems and a matter of survival, reminding him of the quiet and filled with tears from a girl’s voice, wafting from the basement. His anger snarled again, grumbled and curled up in his solar plexus ready to jump, to show its teeth and attack at any moment.

He desperately wanted to smoke. He desperately wanted to be rid of another ball of growing guilt because he screwed up. It had to be Jesus staying on the road and engaging in a red herring for the walkers, not realizing they were people, putting on masks of the dead. Why the hell had Daryl volunteered take his place? And why the fuck didn’t Jesus argue with him? Yes, Jesus wouldn’t able to draw the herd off in the other direction because half of it had a functioning brain to redirect the rest of them. But he wouldn’t have been trapped in the bloody cemetery.

He said the only way out of this was to avoid a fight. The one, who fought better than anyone, knew the price they would pay for the fight.

Daryl wished Paul came to him, held out his hand to him and helped to get up. But only Dog came and licked Daryl’s palm. Daryl indifferently stroked Dog’s shaggy head and lowered his hands. He rested his forehead on his knees, wanting to faint; his strength left his body, only brain didn’t give up and tortured him by infinite and senseless variations of the question “what if”. He was sitting until nightfall, the only light offered by the light of the house’s porch. But the images of the dead had not disappeared. It was as if he was waiting for them to rise from their graves. To rise and pull him towards them. Those whose graves were not here, but who surely will come for him. Merle, Beth, Rick.

The silence was cut only by alarming katydids song, pulling his nerves tight as a bow across the strings, smoothly extending and hitting then.

How many people must die because of him? How many people will he dig a grave for? In the both senses. Everyone around him saw him as strong, able to bite the bullet, clenching in his hands the shaft of a shovel, doing his job, surviving. But every single death devastated him more and more. He thought there was only one shell left of him after Rick’s death. But obviously not. Otherwise there's nothing that would hurt and groan inside him. His heart wouldn’t be bleeding, making his fingers stiff. He’s been dead for a while. He belongs here, in this cemetery. Maybe that’s where dead men really start their journey to peace.

But a dead somehow roam the earth, and don’t want to rest in peace. And people started to pretend to be them. Daryl heard the story from a tattooed biker, one covered in ink from head to foot, in a bar. Ostensibly, the Grim Reaper will not take one who is marked of death, deciding that person is already dead. He marked himself on the back of the right hand, putting the paint under his skin by the metal rod, too. Not because he wanted to cheat death – he doesn’t need that – but to feel pain and understand there is still something alive in him.

His palm was aching for several days reminding him of his beating heart.

Is it really necessary to become dead to really live?

He has to get up.... He has to.

His legs carry him to Paul’s trailer where the another man had provided him with a night's shelter. After Rick’s death Paul always tried to persuade Daryl to stay in the community just for one night, but Daryl stubbornly refused and ran into the wood, to his camp again. Once, Paul was too forceful when he saw the deep scratch on Daryl’s arm, which was not worth the trouble in the hunter’s opinion. Jesus grabbed him by the shoulders, pointed his fucking green eyes into Daryl’s eyes, convincing him of the need for rest and be checked out by a doctor. Daryl moved and then was pushed to the wall. With a kiss. He pushed Jesus away in reaction.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” a heavy whisper escaped him.

Or maybe he should have.

It's empty and dark in the trailer now. Daryl doesn’t turn on the lamp and falls down onto the bed on the blanket hoping the fatigue will make him pass out. But he looks up at the ceiling, and his heart pounds against his ribs deafeningly. He can’t. He tosses and turns, lays for half an hour or more listening to the surrounding sounds. Suddenly he shudders as he hears a low moan. Is it hallucination? He was waiting for any sound so hard that he could have made it up? But that’s enough to get Daryl out of bed, clutching the hunting knife in his hand and slipping out of the room.

There was nobody. Not a sound. Only the wind rustling in the leaves of the trees and the chirp of the katydids. He looks around peering into the darkness, gazes at the guards on the wall and doesn’t notice anything alarming in their behavior. He slowly walks around the trailer. Daryl stops when the door of the next trailer – the medical one – opens. He puts the knife away and rushes forward to catch the figure that almost falls just from the two steps of the stairs.

“Why are you up?”

“There was no air.”

He carefully holds Paul close to him, afraid to hurt him. Paul’s skin is cold; he barely clings to Daryl with one hand, with a risk of falling to the ground. Daryl helps him sit down on the step and for a few long seconds stares at him trying to check his condition before sits down beside him. Paul’s chest is tightly wrapped in a bandage, not allowing him to take a deep breath; he swings a little and touches his shoulder to Daryl’s shoulder.

“Forgive me,” muffled and confidently escapes Daryl’s lips.

“For what?”

“You should have...”

“No. It was not your fault,” Paul cuts him off midstream. “This was my own decision. You think you could have argued with me if I decided otherwise?” There is a smile in his voice, but Daryl can’t turn around and look in his face. He's afraid to see Paul deadly pale like the moment they arrived in Hilltop and he thought he... “I want to say thank you”.

“For what?” now it's Daryl’s turn to be surprised.

“For getting me out of the cemetery.”

“We did it with Aaron together.”

“Yes, but… you brought me.”

“Do you remember?”

“No, I don’t. But I thought... so it wasn't a dream.”

Daryl is silent, feeling uncomfortable.

“Well… you’re welcome… I guess.”

They sit for a while in silence, and Daryl hears Paul’s heavy breathing. He wants to ask how Paul feels and doesn’t think he’ll hear anything good. And if Paul says everything is alright, it will be a lie. Jesus was stabbed through his chest yesterday. Daryl wasn’t even sure he was taking a living person to Hilltop, he was just hoping. He begged all the nonexistent gods for Paul to survive. He’s fucking Jesus.

“You’re still here….” Paul breaks the silence.

“Wanted to be sure you’re ok.”

“Will you leave again then?”

Daryl swallows nervously. He knows Paul won’t like his answer. He would like to do differently, but he has no other options. Only the woods is waiting for him with open arms.

“Yeah”.

“When?”

There was a heavy silence, and Daryl prays that somebody would come out of the house and interrupt their conversation so he wouldn’t have to answer. For some reason, it’s always hard for him to talk to Paul; it’s like a piece of glass stuck in his throat, and Daryl's afraid to cut it by speaking.

“When you get better.”

A heavy sigh, as if it was full of physical pain, takes out Daryl’s soul. Daryl shudders when his hand is touched by someone else's warm palm. He doesn’t pull his hand away, his heart starts pounding. Shivering can be attributed to the cold and exhaustion, but he can't find the courage to justify himself. All that remains is to close his eyes and feel – imagine – their interlacing fingers.

“I swear I’ll get in trouble again so you’ll be stuck here.” Paul tries to laugh it off, but Daryl doesn’t find anything funny in his words. It’s scary. Paul won’t survive another stab like that, not anytime soon. He won’t recover for probably a month, and fuck only knows when he'd be able to fight in full strength.

“Idiot.”

“Maybe. But I don’t know how to ask you to stay.”

Why? Why does he want Daryl to settle down in Hilltop? Daryl is scared to ask the question, as if he feels he’ll put Paul in an uncomfortable position. What if Paul can’t find the words to answer? Sometimes it’s possible to respond only with actions.

“You need me here?” the only question that matters.

“Yes, I do.”

“Then you should have said it and not risk yourself.”

“I had no other way. I had to cover for the rest of us to they could get out. And said… I really should have said that.”


End file.
